The Iris Escape
by Satansings
Summary: Just another case of demonic attack spirals into a much bigger plot when Heavenly weapons are involved. Krystal, a woman caught in the middle of it all, must learn Winchester politics or die before her powers can be fully realized.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note:

Hello reader.

I used to write fanfiction a long time ago and am pretty rusty at it. Supernatural, however, has sparked the part of my brain Metatron would want to dissect most especially and you're about to embark on the results.

I've been a lurker on here for a few weeks now, fan-girling my little heart out and taking mental notes.

Your opinion is always welcome.

Enjoy.

Chapter One: Demon House Calls are _so_ 1950s

Saint Magdalena Psychiatric Hospital

Holly, Michigan

"Hello Krystal," the tall man said, producing a fold-out badge from his shirt pocket. "I'm Sam, with the CDC. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the incident at the hospital." A slight temptation to inspect the inspector arose within her. She remained silent.

 _CDC, my ass._

His hand awkwardly hung in the air for a handshake she would not engage with.

When Krystal didn't move, Sam walked the two feet over to her standard issue industrial desk and gracefully moved the metal chair to face her near the bed and sat down, crossing his legs. Sam looked like a teenager stuck at the kid's table for Thanksgiving, miniature chairs being all that's available for the in-betweeners.

"Can you tell me about that day?" He asked. Her crossed arms bit the slightest tad tighter into her torso, bringing a delicious pain. The wall behind felt constrictive.

"What do you want to know?" She hedged.

"Well, the report states that you were found in an alleyway." Sam's large hands produced a manila folder from the magic suit jacket that held God knows what else. He looked it over thoughtfully. Paused. Look at her. "With enough Vicodin in your system to put down an elephant." She looked away.

"But I don't care about that. I'm here to get your side of the story." At that, a cynical laugh escaped her, bubbling up from deep within. Then, she cringed at the sudden onslaught of sharpness that accompanied any breath too deep or productive lately. "Are you okay?" His concern unnerved her.

"You can't help me," Krystal spoke into a half cough she was desperate to suppress. "Really, Mr. CDC, you should leave. The good doctors here are helping me just fine." Her attempt at a sharp statement fell flat.

"Look," the sudden intensity of his words charged the air "something strange happened in that hospital bed. The official report says you did it to yourself, but we both know that's a lie. What happened?"

Their eyes locked in a stalemate.

"Sometimes life is hard," the sarcasm dripped from her lips "like when you're a junkie. That's where suicide comes in. Any more questions?" She was guessing, putting the broken pieces of information from the doctors and Sam together in a fashion that mimicked collage work.

 _Please work. Leave me alone._

Sam tucked the folder into his coat and clasped his hands together, almost ready to give up the interview in lieu of other angles he could be perusing for the case since its center was being difficult. The thought of leaving her in the sterile locked box bothered him a bit; she was a sitting duck. _I wish Dean were here,_ he thought absently and not for the first or twentieth time that day. It had less to do with a divided workload than the rubber-band ball tangle of their lives.

Almost two weeks ago, the Winchester brothers had spit up for the umpteenth time. It was always temporary, but Sam wasn't so sure this time. Their trust issues ran deep when poor judgement coalesced in a stew of emotion and duty over and again. Their brotherhood was often painful and Sam's devotion waned when his brother's decisions complicated matters beyond reason.

 _Crowley should be a charred pile of nothing. I had him. Dammit._

Sam resolved that the space would do them well.

He looked up at the woman before him. Twenty-three, red-haired, scared. The blank pale blue patient uniform looked uncomfortable. Just beyond her crossed arms, a small bloodstain had begun to form over her heart as the wound became agitated mid-heal.

If he could just focus on the case at hand than the rest could wait.

"Krystal Romero." Sam stated the name and watched as the deep blues they allegedly belonged to dart side to side. "What's your real name?"

"Excuse me?" Her halfhearted outrage only added to his case.

"The police have no record of anyone by that name. Who are you hiding from?"

"You don't know anything." Her anger sizzled beneath the dry membrane of reality. "What's the CDC doing investigating a suicide attempt anyway?" Krystal's dry lips countered. She licked them half unconsciously, desperate for chapstick. His lips pursed and a small, triumphant smile took form in hers.

Sam's intuitive and empathetic nature rarely failed him.

"Alright. You want my truth?" She caved.

"Yes."

"On one condition."

"Sure, what?"

"I want yours."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note:

Writing Cas (or should it be Cass?) is a little difficult for me because he seems to say what's on his mind, not hiding or filtering himself the way most people do.

I want it to feel authentic, ya know?

In any case, her goes chapter two of what is turning out to be probably a ten-plus chapter story.

Your opinion is always welcome.

Enjoy.

Chapter Two: Does This Trenchcoat Make me Look Fat?

"I woke up in that hospital bed alone with no memories, which sucked. My head felt like twenty pounds of lead at the bottom of the ocean. I asked for water and when she came back… my nurse was no longer my nurse." Sam's eyes encouraged Krystal to go on from his seated position at the edge of her psychiatric hospital bed.

Her pause was long and she chewed her bottom lip into a painful-looking twist. "Her eyes were purple."

Sam worked the statement over in his jaw. "Not black?" He asked.

"No. And she told me some weird shit, half in English and half in…. something else." Krystal's voice shook as the inhuman speech ricocheted inside her cranium, echoing darkness.

"It's okay," Sam patted her gently on the knee. "You said you had no memories?"

"None," She shoot her head, "but then my first name scratched its way to the surface. And my last name," She laughed gently then. Her arms uncrossed and she lifted the loose powder blue pant leg up to reveal an intricate tattoo design that ran up her entire calf. The scene was from Night of the Living Dead, complete with the quote 'They're coming to get you Barbara,' and a portrait of the director himself. "I must have a thing for zombie films."

Sam admired the artistry. He had seen that film while at Stanford. It was a week before Halloween and for the price of one canned good donation to the homeless you could get into the screening. "He died recently," Sam mused.

Krystal suddenly yelped out, looking behind Sam. He stood and turned in a motion silhouetted by muscle memory, gun out and ready to shoot. "You are hard to find when you deactivate your phone, Sam." The trench coat-clad man stated in a tone not unlike an android. Gun down, Sam sighed. Before he could say anything, Cas sidestepped him to look at Krystal. She was now crouched on the bed, almost hyperventilating and obviously in pain.

"He's a friend." Sam said, concern knitting his brow, an arm held out to her.

The lock on the only door turned and a male scrubs-clad employee entered. Cas was lightening across the room. Two fingers, forehead, out cold. This time, Krystal's yelp came out like a soft scream. She scurried off the bed quickly but didn't make it far before the ground pulled her like a magnet down, down, down.

"Cas!" Sam yelled out, rushing to her. His large hands delicately turned Krystal over and brushed her fire hair out of the way. Her skintone had begun to resemble the patient uniform powder blue as the bloodstain spread its borders farther down her torso. Sam pulled the shirt down over her collarbone as far as it would go to see the wound and failing stitches.

Cas' palm on her forehead produced a bright light that hurt his eyes. Some color noticeably entered her cheeks, breathing evened out, and the bleeding stopped. The wound, however, did not close.

"I was afraid of this," Cas stated grimly. Another hospital staff member entered the room with more men in tow, shouting as they sidestepped their fallen coworker. A commotion was coming.

Cas grabbed Sam's forearm and the three were in a motel room, no doubt thanks to Cas and his angel mojo. The hunter had checked into this room earlier that morning with an errant thought that the refrigerator needed a serious looking-at given the loud _whooshing_ it produced every few minutes. Sam lifted Krystal from the floor to the bed as gently as he could. Turning to his friend he asked, "Cas, what's going on?"  
Without missing a beat, he answered straight. "Me and other angels have been tracking weapons from the fall. What did this," he gestured to Krystal, "I think is the Cratory dagger. A weapon forged from demon and dragon semen." Cas' blue eyes seemed to gain an inch or two of depth. "I am unable to heal what it directly destroyed."

Sam gulped. "What was something like that even doing in Heaven, Cas?"

"To keep it quarantined." the angel stated simply. "Sam, we have to get this blade back before more people get hurt." The hunter nodded.

"She mentioned a purple-eyed demon, know anything about that?"

"No." Cas said. His beige trench coat always was a size too big for his frame, but in that moment Sam thought it was more like two. Whatever Cas had been up to, tracking down these weapons, up to this moment, had his spirit down in the dumps. Sam guessed the angel's inability to heal Krystal only added to the creeping sense of impotency at ever being one of the good guys again.

To break the moment, Sam walked over to Krystal on the bed. She looked peaceful, hair and hands splayed on the pillow and overtop the comforter. He knew she was dying.

"If we can find the blade, will you be able to heal her?" He asked, arms crossed and jaw tight.

Cas shook his head. "No. The cratory dagger was created by high-level demons to taunt angels by denying them the ability to save lives."

"Well, then we're just going to have to find another way. The question is," Sam said, "why would someone use it on her?"

A silence once again had befallen the men, but Cas broke it, with some delicacy. "Sam, you should call your brother. We could use his help."

"No, we don't." It came out much sharper than Sam intended. Cas' eyes conveyed that he wanted to say more but refrained. "Look, we're taking a break for a reason. Dean needs to cool off. I all but forced him to, ya know? I'm not pulling him back into this. Not yet, anyway."

"And how does Dean feel about that?" Sam's eyebrows knitted back in a mixture of pain and regret.


End file.
